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النشر الإلكتروني

Perhaps thy spirit's calm repose
No evil dream hath come to spoil;
A firm, resistless front it shows

Amidst the passions' fiercest broil!
'Tis well-enjoy and bless thy lot,
Still pitying him who shares it not!

The pure, the holy-they, perchance,
About thy path have still been seen,
Nor could thy feet a step advance

But there their pious aid hath been!
Ah! happy in that better state;
Yet pray for hearts more desolate!

TO BLOSSOMS.

HERRICK is one of the most genuine of our poets, and the quaintness of his expressions often lends an interest and even a grace to his verses. Like all the poets of his era, that golden age of English poetry, he overflows with love for Nature, and revels in description of her charms. How beautiful are these stanzas.

FAIR pledges of a faithful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past,

But you may stay yet here awhile,
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What! were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,

And so to bid good night?

'Tis pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you awhile, they glide

Into the grave.

THE SONG OF STEAM.

It is a common remark that the startling realities of the present age have stifled the imagination and extinguished the fancy, and that we have become so matter-of-fact as to have lost all love for poetry, which is essentially imaginative. What poetry, say these objectors, can be found in such unromantic subjects as Railroads, Steam Packets, Factories, Model Lodging Houses, and such like? Let the following, extracted from an American Newspaper, be the reply.

HARNESS me down with your iron bands;
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the power of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laugh'd, as I lay conceal'd from sight
For many a countless hour,

At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power.

When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,

Creeping along, a snail-like band,

Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I mark'd the peasant faintly reel
With the toil which he daily bore,
As he feebly turn'd at the tardy wheel,
Or tugg'd at the weary oar.

When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,

As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love;

I could not but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripp'd afar,

When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chain'd to the flying car.

Ha ha ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length,

And I rush'd to my throne with thunder blast,
And laugh'd in my iron strength.

Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.

Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er
The mountain's steep decline;
Time-space-have yielded to my power-
The world! the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly west,
Or the orient floods divine.

The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice,

And the monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling at my voice.

I

carry the wealth and the lord of earth,
The thoughts of the god-like mind;
The wind lags after my flying forth,
The lightning is left behind.

In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine
My tireless arm doth play,

Where the rocks never saw the sun decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day.

I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden cave below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush overflow.

I blow the bellows, I forge the steel
In all the shops of trade;

I hammer the ore and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made;
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry, I spin, I weave;

And all my doings I put into print
On every Saturday eve.

I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay,
No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"

And soon I intend you may "go and play,"
While I manage the world by myself.
But harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.

BEAUTY.

A familiar passage from BYRON will not be the less welcome because familiar.

As, rising on its purple wing,
The insect queen of eastern spring,
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer
Invites the young pursuer near,
And leads him on from flower to flower
A weary chase and wasted hour,
Then leaves him, as it soars on high,
With panting heart and tearful eye:
So Beauty lures the full-grown child,
With hue as bright, and wing as wild,
A chase of idle hopes and fears,
Begun in folly, closed in tears.
If won, to equal ills betray'd,
Woe waits the insect and the maid;
A life of pain, the loss of peace,
From infant's play, and man's caprice:
The lovely toy so fiercely sought
Hath lost its charm by being caught,
For every touch that wooed his stay
Hath brush'd its brightest hues away,
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone,
'Tis left to fly or fall alone.

With wounded wing, or bleeding breast,
Ah! where shall either victim rest?
Can this with faded pinion soar

From rose to tulip as before?

Or Beauty, blighted in an hour,
Find joy within her broken bower?
No! gayer insects fluttering by

Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die,
And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister's shame.

A CHARADE.

W. MACKWORTH PRAED contrived to convert into Beautiful Poetry that which in less graceful hands is usually the most stupid and unpoetical of productions-the Charade. Several of these he published in Knight's Quarterly Magazine, many years ago. The brilliant author himself is dead. Here is one of them. We leave it to the ingenuity of the reader to find the solution.

THERE kneels in holy St. Cuthbert's aisles
No holier father than Father Giles;
Matins or vespers, it matters not which,
He is ever there, like a saint in his niche;
Morning and midnight his missal he reads,
Midnight and morning he tells his beads!

Wide spread the fame of the holy man,
Powerful his blessing, and potent his ban;
Wondrous the marvels his piety works
On unbelieving heathens, and infidel Turks;
But strangest of all is the power he is given
To turn maidens' hearts to the service of heaven!

St. Ursula's prioress comes to-day,

At holy St. Cuthbert's shrine to pray;

She comes with an offering-she comes with a prayer

For she leads to the altar the Lady Clare.

Mary, mother! how fair a maid

To leave the world for a cloister's shade!

She yields to-morrow her golden lands
For the church's use-the church's hands;

She quits the world with its pleasures and wiles,
And to-day she confesses to Father Giles;
Slight is the penance, I ween, may atone
For all of sin she hath ever known!

"Daughter, since last thou hast kneel'd for grace
Hath peace in thy heart found a dwelling-place?
From thy heart hast thou banish'd each worldly thought,
Save thy spirit's weal, hast thou pined for nought? "
Moist is her kerchief, and droop'd her head,
But "my first," is all poor Clara said.

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